


Towards the Heart

by solojones



Series: What He Likes [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, BDSM, Character Study, Cocaine, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, F/M, Post Reichenbach, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-23
Updated: 2012-06-23
Packaged: 2017-11-08 09:14:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/441604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solojones/pseuds/solojones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I've required different things thus far, but I'm curious. Show me what it is you do. Treat me like any other client. Perhaps I do want to try another experiment."</p><p>On a visit to Irene whilst tracking down Moriarty's network, Sherlock has several unusual requests that will lead them into dangerous, dark territory. And they may not be able to go back. Soul-crushing angst ahead. You've been warned.</p><p>This can be read alone or as part of a series about Sherlock visiting Irene on different occasions during his time away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Towards the Heart

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: This story contains hopefully realistic depictions of both drug addiction and dominatrices.

It had only been six weeks since she'd last seen Sherlock Holmes, and Irene had grown accustomed to only seeing him at longer intervals. So she was quite surprised one warm afternoon, as she'd been lounging around in shorts and a tank top, to open her door to what she thought was a delivery she'd been waiting for and to find Sherlock instead. The first thing she noticed was that he looked tan. His voice sounded stuffy as he asked, "May I come in?"

"Of course," she said, stepping back and ushering him inside before closing the door. He was wearing a pair of black trousers and a white button up shirt. And, to her surprise,  _sunglasses_ , which made him really look not himself. The scowl on his face was the only thing that reassured her that he wasn't wearing them as part of a holiday. Well, that and the fact that she knew what sorts of things he'd been out doing for the past nearly eleven months, and they were far from enjoyable.

Sherlock set his small duffle bag down on the kitchen counter as he made his way to the living room, and it was only then that she noticed the cast on his right hand. Only his thumb was left free, but it didn't look like he had particularly good mobility in it either. The right arm of his shirt had been sliced off just above the wrist, presumably to allow him to get the bulky cast in and out of the sleeve. Irene raised an eyebrow at him as he paced anxiously about the living room. "Hit by another car?" she asked, the tiniest note of humour in her voice.

If she could see Sherlock's eyes, she was sure he would be glaring at her judging by the way he grumbled, "A bouncer in Phuket. I got too careless in spying on the establishment he worked for. He decided to dissuade me by stomping repeatedly on my hand."

Irene winced at that. "That sounds... painful." That was an understatement.

Sherlock took his sunglasses off and flung them onto the coffee table in annoyance. "It's damned inconvenient is what it is. Do you know how difficult it is to do the work I need to this way?" He ground the heel of his left palm into his eye, visibly agitated.

"Very, I'd imagine," Irene conceded. "How much longer does it have to stay on?"

"It's been on two weeks. I'll give it two more before I have it removed." Sherlock sneered. "The doctor said he wanted it on six weeks total, but I can hardly afford that, can I?" He sniffed strongly, but it didn't seem to clear up his nose. He made an aggravated noise. "Do you have any tissues?"

"Guest bathroom," she nodded in the direction of the room he normally stayed in when he was here. He stalked off without a thank you, which wasn't really unusual for him. But this generally agitated and annoyed state wasn't how she was used to seeing him. Typically he was collected, maybe thrilled over the prospect of one of his 'experiments'. Oh, sure, they had involved his drug use, but when she'd seen him just six weeks ago, that had still only been an occasional habit. Perhaps that had changed.

"Dammit!" she heard him shout after a few seconds of blowing his nose.

"All right?" she called back. He only gave another frustrated growl, and Irene cautiously entered the guest room and went to stand in the doorway to the bathroom.

Sherlock was leaning over the sink, a wad of tissue clasped tightly under his nose with his left hand. Both the tissue and the sink were spotted with blood. Under the bright lights of the room, Irene could finally see his reddened eyes and slightly enlarged pupils.  _Ah_ , she thought. She'd known a lot of clients who used cocaine in the more traditional way. Truthfully, Sherlock was the first person she'd known who injected it. From what she'd read recently, IV cocaine was a much harder hitting drug than its popular party counterpart. "I didn't realise you snorted it," she remarked cautiously.

In the mirror, Sherlock gave her an annoyed look. "I don't. I did at first, very early in university, but hated it. For obvious reasons." He gestured at his own reflection with his free, broken hand. "Not to mention the high is practically useless. I may as well just be flushing the stuff down the loo. But I can't inject very well either with the cast or my left hand. I tried."

"Why not just take it easy until you're healed? Surely hunting down Moriarty's men can wait two more weeks?" Irene suggested. He'd told her the cocaine was just for when he really needed to think quickly and clearly about the work. She wanted to believe that was still the case, but the way Sherlock looked away from her gaze in the mirror told her otherwise. Well, then, the problem was  _he_  couldn't wait a few weeks. He must have lapsed back into full on addiction, then. Irene tried desperately not to care, but had already realised the last time she'd seen him that she did. And she'd realised he did, too. On that note, she asked quietly, "Why are you here, Sherlock?"

He took a moment to pull the tissue away from his nose. When he saw it was no longer bleeding, he tossed the tissue in the bin and turned the faucet on to wash his face and hand. As he did this, he said, "I need your help with something."

"Information?" she asked, almost hoping it were that. She thought she'd given him everything he could use to find Moriarty's people, but there might still be something... "Or another one of your 'experiments'?"

"Neither," he said, using the hand towel to blot his face and dry his left hand. He seemed to be stalling, but finally turned to actually look at her. "I need a steady hand. One that won't keep missing the vein."

Irene felt cold all of a sudden. All pretence of professionalism fell from her face for just a moment as she replied, "Sherlock, I can't do that."

His brow furrowed angrily. "Oh, I see," he spat, "so it's perfectly fine to jab me with a sedative against my will, but God forbid you should help me with something I actually want to inject." She pursed her lips, unsure how to counter that, or if she should. The last time, she'd used the sedative for his own good, and he knew that. He was merely agitated from withdrawal and she wasn't going to get in a fight with him in this state. After a moment, Sherlock reached into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out his wallet, holding it open for her. "Take your money. Then will you do it?"

Irene thought about saying no, about saying she wasn't someone who would simply do anything he wanted for the equivalent of £250. That she was a professional who worked in a very specific, well-paid, in-demand arena. But she knew he'd see through it. That might be true with her other clients, but twice now he'd paid her to mind him as he shot up. Frankly, it was her own fault she was in this position now. If she protested further, he would demand to know why. And the real reasons weren't something she wanted to discuss, or even really think about. Another part of her thought about saying yes but refusing his payment, telling him (truthfully) that she thought anything was better than him trying to shoot up left-handed in the street somewhere. That she would rather have him here, safe, because she was his... Irene stopped herself. His  _what_? She'd edged dangerously close to that area she didn't want to think about.

"All right," she said stoically, taking the money to convince herself more than him that this was strictly professional. For his part, Sherlock didn't seem aware of her warring sentiments. In fact, he'd always seemed to very much assume that she was only doing this for profit. Irene felt a pang of guilt at letting him continue to think that. The man kept flying hundreds of miles out of his way to see her because she was the only person he could see or talk to as himself anymore. And, she admitted, because heclearly had some degree of feelings for her that she wasn't able to define any more than she was able to define her own. She'd realised that the last time he'd visited.

But Irene doubted it had ever crossed his mind that she was in the exact same position. That  _he_  was the only person who knew she was alive and whom she could be herself with. And that had to be complicated not only by the ever-present tension between them, but also by the fact that he was always high or about to be. How could she relax around him in such a state? How could she ever even begin to entertain the notion of there being something more there?  _If things were different..._  she would sometimes wonder. But they weren't. And that was that. Tucking the money into the pocket of her shorts, she asked, "I take it it's in your bag?" He nodded. "Go sit down on the couch."

They entered the main living space and he did as she said, sitting with his back against the armrest and with his legs stretched out. Irene grabbed the necessary items from his bag and brought them into the living room, setting them down on the coffee table before perching herself delicately on the edge of the couch beside him. She started trying to roll up his left sleeve, but the shirt was tight around his arm. "Probably easier if you take it off," she said, surprising herself with how clinical and not at all suggestive her tone sounded. There was nothing sexy about this.

Irene had started to fill the spoon with distilled water and a little bit of cotton wool as she'd seen Sherlock do, but set it down carefully on the table when she saw how much trouble Sherlock was having getting his shirt unbuttoned with one hand. "Goddamned metacarpal fractures," he muttered. She waved his hand away and started to undo the buttons herself with practiced swiftness.

"You know, maybe you ought to avoid shirts with buttons until you're healed," Irene pointed out.

Sherlock glared at her as he sat up, untucking the tails of his shirt from his trousers and starting to wriggle out of it. "I can't wear t-shirts. No short sleeves," he said flatly. "So what should I wear, long-sleeved t-shirts?  _Jumpers?"_  he sounded utterly disgusted, and Irene allowed herself a small smile. Even in his degenerated state and on the run, he could still maintain a degree of snobbery. It was good to know Sherlock was in there somewhere.

As he finished struggling out of his shirt and tossed it aside in annoyance, the humour in Irene's eyes faded. Now she understood what he'd meant about short sleeves: both of his elbows and his left forearm were dotted with angry red marks and several white abscesses. "Jesus, Sherlock," she chided, in spite of herself. "It's a wonder you haven't given yourself a massive infection by now."

"They're not infected, they're sterile," he scoffed, offended. "It's not as though I'm reusing dirty needles. I would never be that careless. They're just caused by missing the vein. Hence, requesting your help. But if you're too squeamish I can always leave and keep trying to do it myself," he spat, sitting straight up, nostrils flaring.

Irene instinctively put a hand on his chest and eased him back into a reclined position against the armrest as she said, "All right, calm down. I said I'd do it and I will. Just take a breath." She could feel his heart beating hard under her hand. In fact, she realised, it had sped up since she'd touched him. For a second, their eyes connected, then Irene drew her hand back as if burned and looked away. Silently, she undid his belt and started to slide it out of the loops of his trousers. Sherlock lifted his hips slightly to help her free it. Neither of them said anything as she looped the belt tightly around his left arm, then turned to the spoon and the tin foil package. Opening it, Irene took a pinch of the white powder, about the amount she'd seen him use the last time, and dropped it into the water on the spoon. Glancing back over her shoulder, she saw him eyeing the process lustfully. "Is that the right amount?" she asked.

"More," Sherlock replied, his voice sounding suddenly dry. He licked his lips.

Irene took another pinch and dropped a little of the powder in. "Is that enough?"

"The rest," he said, indicating the half of a pinch still left in her fingers. That would make for nearly twice as much as he'd taken just six weeks ago. How had things progressed so quickly? Irene felt vaguely sick as she dropped the rest of the cocaine in, then turned away from him to stir then draw up the liquid with the needle.

Irene turned back to him, making sure to keep her eyes fixed on his forearm and elbow. That way it was just an arm, just veins. Not Sherlock. Turning the arm a little, she found a decent vein on the radial side of the forearm that was free from abscesses or other marks. She grabbed an alcohol swab and cleaned the area, then reached up and loosened the belt to restore circulation. Taking a deep, quiet breath to steady her hands, Irene slid the tiny needle gently into the vein. The arm remained still as she pulled the plunger back and drew a drop of blood, confirming that she had hit. Irene had absolutely no fear of needles, but that didn't stop her from being struck with a wave of nausea. She couldn't help glancing up at Sherlock's face to confirm he really wanted her to do this. But his eyes were staring hungrily at the needle in his arm, and she realised with resignation that it was a moot question. Her eyes turned back to his arm as she slowly depressed the plunger and watched the poisonous liquid drain out of the syringe and into Sherlock's bloodstream.

Removing, capping, and setting aside the needle gave Irene the smallest feeling of relief. She let out a sigh that was covered by Sherlock's loud gasp of pleasure as the shot of cocaine traveled up his arm and into his heart. His muscles seized up and his head fell back, open-mouthed and silent as the rush hit him. After about twenty seconds, he started to breathe again, his flushed chest rising and falling rapidly as beads of sweat broke out all over. Sherlock closed his eyes and hummed lowly. Irene couldn't quite take her eyes off the sight. She was surprised to find that the arousing image also horrified her. Perhaps because she had seen by now that the drug could become as vicious as it now was pleasurable. It could, and would, turn on him in an instant.

Slowly, Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at the ceiling. "Thank you," he sighed. "That's much better." And he  _did_  sound much more relaxed, not at all agitated and angry as he had been before. But deep down Irene knew chasing this euphoria was the reason he'd become so irritable in the first place. After a few moments, Sherlock commented, his tone detached and scientific, "I imagine my heart sped up when you touched me out of a fight or flight response. No one touches me unless they're trying to kill me."

Irene was terribly glad his gaze was on the ceiling, because she couldn't help closing her eyes at the painful twinge in her chest. It occurred to her that Sherlock's claim that the cocaine would help the work didn't seem to be bearing out. Oh, she'd seen it set his mind into overdrive, even for him. But his body kept only seeming worse for the wear. Who knew how often he was trailing deadly men while dangerously distracted by the drug, either because it was or wasn't flowing through his veins at the time. No, she wagered he'd have been making better progress with Moriarty's network if he'd stayed sober. Not that telling him that now would help.

Sherlock looked at her finally, his eyes glassy and pupils wide as he remarked with a small smile, "Not quite your usual work, is it?"

Irene managed not to swallow hard, but instead kept her face an emotionless mask as she replied, "Whatever pays the bills, I suppose." It was an awful lie, and a sober Sherlock Holmes would have spotted it a mile away. In reality, she was fighting with the bile in her stomach.

Sherlock studied her with a lazy, puzzled expression for at least a minute before asking finally, "So what  _is_  your usual work, then?"

"You know what I do," she replied flatly, not sure where he was going with this.

"In principal," Sherlock mused, "I know that men pay you to humiliate them in order to fulfill some sort of fantasy, but I can't imagine why."

"I wouldn't expect you to," Irene replied. For all his brilliance and knowledge, she would guess fetishes were beyond his personal comprehension. Not his area.

Sherlock frowned at her answer. Then, gazing at her steadily, he said, "So show me."

Irene felt her heart leap into her throat.  _No, he can't really mean that_ , she thought. "Show you what?"

"You know," Sherlock said, gesturing lazily rather than laying on the innuendo. "Your normal work. And after all, I've paid you. I'm your client," he reasoned, and she wanted to hit him for sounding so calm and detached about it. "I've required different things thus far, but I'm curious. Show me what it is you do. Treat me like any other client. Perhaps I do want to try another experiment."

The fact that uneasiness was her immediate reaction to his suggestion worried Irene. She'd never been shy or cautious about working with anyone. Why should it be any different with Sherlock? At first she wanted to chalk it up to a concern about his total naivety in this arena. But she realised that wasn't accurate. Yes, he was sexually inexperienced, but the man had worked countless lurid crimes. He could hardly be someone who was easily shocked. Could it possibly be her  _own_  fears that were making her heart pound anxiously?  _That_  was the only thing that would shock Irene Adler. She slammed the lid shut on that thought instantly. No, she told herself, there was no reason at all to refuse him. Besides, this should be a comfort zone for her, an area which she dominated in every possible sense of the word. It had to be much easier than acting the part of the grim reaper helping to take his life away.

"Fine," she replied stonily, instantly turning very much into The Woman as she got to her feet. Her tone was terse and commanding as she said, "Go to the guest bedroom." She had to stop herself from saying 'your bedroom', a mistake she'd never have made with another client. He didn't move. " _Now_ ," she said.

"Ohhh, I see," Sherlock replied, lazily swinging his legs off the couch and standing up to face her. "This is supposed to be part of the 'domination'. Ordering me around, is that it? Very well." He turned and strolled into the bedroom. Irene watched him go, fuming for a moment at the temerity of his being so casual about the whole thing. That wasn't how this was supposed to go. She couldn't let things continue in that manner.

Heading into her own room, she took a look at the clothing in her wardrobe. Costumes, slinky numbers, none of it seemed very 'Sherlock' to her. This was a man who'd only been marginally nervous when she'd been walking around without any clothing at all. In fact, the time she'd seen him the most aroused, at his flat in Baker Street, was when she'd just been herself. Hair down, wearing his robe, very little makeup on. Making a quick decision, Irene took off her clothing, washed her face in her bathroom, let down her hair, and threw on the silk robe that hung on a peg on the wall. As a rule she never wore her own clothing while working. But, she reasoned, Sherlock Holmes was a special case. On her way into the other bedroom, she grabbed his belt from off the ground near the couch. Just in case.

As she strode confidently into the guest room where she worked, Irene was annoyed to find Sherlock standing imperiously by the dresser. "On the bed," she instructed, and he started to turn that direction, looking completely unfazed, which frankly pissed her off. She snatched his left arm and stopped him. He looked down at her with one raised eyebrow. "Take off your trousers."

Sherlock opened his mouth slightly then swallowed a little nervously, which relieved Irene immensely. She knew there had to be  _some_  way to humiliate this man. "Why?" he asked cautiously.

"Because I told you to," Irene said with the smallest of wicked smiles, starting to feel comfortably herself with Sherlock for the first time since perhaps London. Maybe this was a good idea after all.

Seeming to realise his slip up, Sherlock steeled himself, kicked off his shoes, and unzipped his black trousers. He seemed tense but didn't hesitate as he slipped his trousers off and climbed onto the bed, sitting with his back against the headrest, his arms folded in his lap. There was the slightest touch of embarrassment in his manner, and that should have been precisely what she wanted. As a professional, she had the instinct to tell him to remove his blue silk boxers as well. But a different, foreign part of her balked at the notion of taking it that far, for both their sakes, though she really didn't want to dwell on why. Irene turned away from the bed and grabbed four silk ties from one of the drawers.

"Lie down," she said, turning back to Sherlock. He looked uncertain, though more out of confusion than embarrassment, but he did as she said. When she tied his left leg to the bedpost with the silk, he actually relaxed.

"Ahh," he mused, "Easier to tie someone in tightly without the material of the trousers in the way. Less chance of them slipping out." Making the logical connection set him at ease, and irritated her to no end.

"Shut up," Irene ground out as she secured his other leg to the bed.

"Is that part of the professional scolding?" he inquired as she moved up the side of the bed. He sounded for all the world like a chemist asking about a new research paper.

"No, it's me being sick of your incessant questions. You're  _supposed_  to be begging, not interrogating," she fumed as she pulled the tie holding his left arm up extra tight. He made no indication that he felt any pain from it, and perhaps on the cocaine he didn't. In general, the drug seemed to be making him very at ease, which wasn't what she wanted at all.

Sherlock gave a long sigh as Irene climbed over him and wrapped the last tie around his forearm, just above the cast. In spite of her professional inclination to inflict pain, she made that one a little looser. "You know, I have no doubt based on the price you commanded in London that you're very good at this. But frankly, Irene, I still don't see the appeal," Sherlock huffed.

She wanted to slap him. But because it was for her  _own_  reasons, not his, she just barely restrained herself. Instead, she leaned in over him, her face a few inches from his own as she half whispered, half-sighed, "Don't you have any fantasies, Mr. Holmes?" Honestly, she wasn't sure, and it was insanely frustrating.

"Aren't you supposed to be able to figure that out? Surely not everyone is so easy," Sherlock replied in a low, challenging voice.

Fuming, Irene got to her feet and walked slowly to the end of the bed, grabbing his belt from on top of the wardrobe where she'd left it. Giving him a hooded look, she slapped his leg lightly with the belt said in a low voice, "You've been a bad boy."

Sherlock actually rolled his eyes at that. "Dear God, infantilising? Does anyone actually go for that?"

 _You'd be surprised,_  she thought. She hadn't really expected that one to work very well. Perhaps something a little closer to home. She leaned in and tightened the restraints on his legs further. "It may have taken me ten years, but I've finally arrested you. And there's no one watching our little _interrogation_ -"

His long-suffering sigh stopped her. "You forget, I've been arrested before. It's hardly a fantasy. More like pointless tedium."

Irene whacked his thigh with the belt, more out of frustration than because she actually thought it might excite him. "Don't you have  _any_  imagination?" she growled, crawling up onto the bed and kneeling between his outstretched feet. She couldn't help noting his strong, lean muscles. Developed from months of literally running for his life, no doubt. The feeling of her heart speeding up alarmed her.  _This is_ _ **his**_ _fantasy, not yours,_  she reminded herself sharply. She was starting to remember one of the reasons she thought this might be a bad idea. But Irene was adamant that she could be professional enough not to let her attraction get in the way. She'd had to do it with a few women over the years, so certainly she could do it with some man.

But he wasn't just 'some man'. Sherlock Holmes was a marvel. It was his mind as much as his body that had drawn her so strongly to him in the first place. It had meant not having to fake attraction to him in order to gather information from him back in London. No, Sherlock was no ordinary man. He didn't have an ordinary man's desires or thought processes. His mind was grounded in reality, not fantasy. She recalled that night in Baker Street again, when he'd looked into her eyes, taken her pulse. Trying to evaluate her desire for him. And she'd seen the same desire in his own eyes. The only thing that she'd seen turn him on was  _her._  And not even her body so much as her sharp mind and pointed words. Maybe,  _maybe_  she could get him to beg for that. Even as she thought it, she knew it was dangerous, and normally something to avoid. The whole idea of a dominatrix was to indulge in role play, to get the client to completely lose themselves in fantasy. But Sherlock Holmes was a man seemingly devoid of imagination. If she had to play a little closer to reality with him, so be it. It would be a challenge, at any rate.

Slowly, Irene crawled up Sherlock's body, positioning herself above him, but propped up on her arms and the balls of her feet so that the only thing touching him was her robe. "You don't want any of those fantasies, do you?" she asked, but she knew it was rhetorical. It got his attention anyway. His wide, drugged pupils stared back at her, intrigued for the first time in the session. She could hear his heart pounding, but it had been that way from the cocaine already. She'd have to try a little harder to evoke a different heart-pounding response from him. Staring at him from a few inches away, she whispered, "You want what's right in front of you. You want  _me._ "

Sherlock's mouth dropped open a fraction, as if to object, but Irene reacted first. Sitting up on his chest, with only her silk robe separating their bodies, she slapped him across the face with the belt. His head whipped to the side and he blinked in surprise, but didn't cry out. Again, most likely the cocaine was dulling his senses. Irene leaned in again and growled, "Well what makes you think I'd want a piece of shit like you?"

The room suddenly grew deathly quiet, and Irene instantly knew this was the wrong tactic. Oh, it got a reaction from Sherlock, all right; but not the one she was going for. Normally when she located a man or woman's fantasy, she could see their eyes light up with the secret thrill of it. Then Irene knew she'd hit on the thing that they  _wanted_  to beg for, to make believe they felt ashamed of when really it was their deepest desire. But Sherlock's eyes looked completely different. They'd managed to snap out of their drugged haze and for a moment he looked truly, deeply hurt. Irene sat back, and was just about to jump off the bed and change tactics (or admit defeat and give up completely) when Sherlock said, his voice hollow, "Go on."

"Sherlock," Irene said, her tone of command slipping, "I don't think-"

"I said," he hissed, his eyes boring into hers, " _Go on._  You were saying?"

Irene was stuck in a hopeless position. She always did what the client wanted, and Sherlock was her client. Yet at the same time, she knew he wasn't enjoying this. But she  _had_  to maintain her professionalism. If this wasn't a professional relationship, what was it? She couldn't handle anything else.

Quietly, Irene repeated, "You're a piece of shit." She swallowed, using every ounce of composure she possessed. Sherlock's eyes were locked onto her intently as he breathed heavily. "Just look at you. You're a pathetic, strung out junkie."

"Hit me," he said quietly. She belted him across the face again, and this time he hissed in pain, his eyes screwing shut a moment before looking back up at her.

"You're arrogant, insufferable," she said in her usual smooth, alluring tone. But Irene was starting to feel as if she were outside her own body. As if she weren't the one saying any of this. She had no idea where it was coming from, but Sherlock wasn't taking his eyes off her, so she continued, "You've had one friend your whole life and no lovers. The people who know you can't stand you." This time, she smacked him without warning, and he gave a cry of pain before biting his lip and looking back at her.  _Stop it, you don't want to do this,_  a large part of her thought. But something uncontrollable was driving her now. She felt as though she weren't even speaking her own words anymore.

"And yet you keep coming back here," she said, laughing coldly. "Poor, sad Sherlock Holmes. Still obsessed with a woman who fooled him. You went to all that trouble to save me, and that still wasn't enough. You still come back,  _begging_  to be important.  _Begging_  to matter to a woman you have to  _pay_. I want you to  _beg_  me."

"P..please," Sherlock stammered, his throat constricting. "Please Irene. Please, please," he pleaded, and the familiar words made Irene darkly happy, made her feel like she'd succeeded.  _Finally_.

Irene's heart was pounding as she drew back the belt once again, intending to crack it down against Sherlock's now bruised face, but the look in his eyes froze her. It wasn't arousal. It wasn't lust. It wasn't any of the things she was supposed to see when she broke someone, got them to open up and dissolve into a fantasy world. No, Sherlock's bloodshot eyes were  _actually_  pleading with her. Not to stop talking, but for something else she couldn't place.

Coming out of the unsettling trance she'd been in, Irene really  _looked_  at the man beneath her now. She was shocked at what she saw. Sherlock's jaw was clamped shut tightly, and he looked to be fighting against himself with everything he had. His chest was trembling not with arousal, but with the shivering motion of someone trying to hold back a sob. Something she'd never have thought she'd witness from Sherlock. But she recalled too late how emotionally vulnerable cocaine could make someone. As easily as it could give one confidence, it could also unearth whatever demons led a person to shoot up in the first place. And my how Irene had helped it do its work. It was only then that she realised what she'd been doing. She'd been reading him, all right, telling him what he wanted to hear, just like she was supposed to. Except that what he wanted to hear wasn't fake at all. And it certainly wasn't pleasurable. It was the coldest, hardest version of his reality. It wasn't his deepest desire, but his deepest fear.

Instantly, Irene moved off of Sherlock, off the bed, back-pedalling away as the reality of the situation hit her like a bucket of ice water.  _Oh God, what have I done?_  she thought.

"Wh-why are you stopping?" Sherlock asked, turning his head to look at her, his eyes glassy and wild, his voice choked with frantic, unshed tears.

"It's not supposed to be like this," Irene said. "It's supposed to be a bit of fun. To get you off. Not to..." she swallowed, unable to voice how pained and miserable Sherlock looked. "I should have stopped a long time ago. It's my fault. I'm sor-"

"No!" he shouted. "Make believe all you like, but don't pretend that you  _care,_ " he spat viciously. Irene wanted so badly to object, feeling sick at the thought of the things she'd said. She didn't even believe them.  _He_  did and she'd been deducing his thoughts, reflecting them back to him, just as she was supposed to... but not like this. Not those kinds of thoughts. Sherlock's face grew crimson as he growled, "It's not your job to care. It's your job to punish me, isn't it?"

"I do that for people's pleasure," Irene replied, shaking her head. He didn't understand. She knew he didn't comprehend the concept of what she did, and she'd let it get completely out of hand. In her quest to rise to a challenge, she'd deliberately ignored the factors of the drugs, his feelings for her, or the history between them. Irene looked at him now, her whole being apologetic. "I don't do it to people who actually think they deserve it."

"Fuck you!" Sherlock shouted, yanking against his bonds. He started thrashing angrily and was bordering on hyperventilating. He was rapidly losing control of himself, and that was so unlike him that it shook Irene to her core. For a moment, she had the urge to flush all of his drugs and beg him to quit. But she knew it would be no use. She couldn't help him quit. He didn't want to quit. She could only try to help his present state.

"Sherlock! Sherlock,  _stop it!_ " Irene pleaded, placing her hands gently on either side of his face and forcing his unfocused, glassy eyes to look at her. He stopped thrashing and stared at her, all the fight suddenly draining from his body. Quietly, calmly she said, "You're going to hurt yourself. Let me untie you." He shut his eyes and clenched his jaw tightly, taking some deep breaths, then gave a small nod. She could see a few stray tears running down the sides of his face now, but said nothing as she quickly, gently untied all four of his limbs.

Sherlock didn't move, but lay there, limp and looking completed exhausted. His face was red and his hair matted with sweat. He breathed heavily and Irene thought she could almost hear his heart pounding. She realised the combination of cocaine and adrenaline might have only made that worse. But the short-lived high seemed to be wearing off, because Sherlock rasped, "I need another hit."

As much as she didn't want to do it, as much as she knew it was killing him, Irene couldn't bring herself to let the man plead with her again. "All right," she replied numbly. "I'll be right back." She felt she was in a horrible dream as she walked back into the living room and calmly prepared another shot of cocaine with a new syringe.

When she re-entered the bedroom, Sherlock had wiped his face dry with his left hand and had managed to make his breathing even, though still quickened. Irene moved to his right arm this time, spying a vein that looked to be large enough without assistance. "Is this all right?" she asked, swabbing the area with an alcohol wipe then positioning the needle against his arm, which was still stretched up towards the headboard.

"No," he said, his voice ragged and tired. "You have to point it towards the heart."

There was a moment of still silence before Irene pulled his arm down and pointed the needle upwards. She said nothing as she injected him. He didn't convulse so much this time. Instead, as she pulled the needle out, capped it, and set it aside, he let out a long, relieved sigh. He didn't speak for several minutes, and Irene couldn't take her eyes off of him. His breathing had grown shallow and calm this time, as if all his anxieties had been flushed away. "Are you all right?" she asked, finally.

"Much better," Sherlock said, stroking the sheets beside him a little, like a man running his fingers through his lover's hair. "Much, much better."

This, she realised, this was the only thing Sherlock let dominate him. The thing that really tied him up and had him begging for more, debasing him for a momentary rush of pleasure.  _This is what he likes, this intimacy. The drugs in his body, shooting towards his heart._ And Irene realised why he'd wanted her to say those things, the things he believed. He was letting her stand in for the drugs. Those were the things the cocaine whispered to him, drawing him back. Convincing him it was the only thing he loved. The only thing that would love him back.

_But it never gives back. It takes and it takes and it takes until-_

Until what?

Irene didn't have an answer for that. She didn't know how this would end, though deep down, she had a sickening fear of the direction it was going. Could she do anything to reverse it? She wanted to. God, she really did. But even if she got up the courage to try, he'd never trust her now. As she closed the door and turned off the light, leaving Sherlock alone in his momentary thralls of ecstasy, Irene could only think about how the demon possessing Sherlock had asked her to help drag him into his own personal hell. And how she had said yes.

* * *

In the morning, Irene found Sherlock still in the guest bed, still only in his boxers, lying on his side. As she approached, she realised he was shivering and awake. "Did you sleep at all?" she asked.

He shook his head.

Irene bit her lip, trying to hold back the flood of dangerous emotions threatening to come out. "Sherlock, what I said last night, I hope you know I didn't-"

"I don't want to talk about it," he replied flatly.

No, of course he didn't. And Irene wasn't sure she did either, except that she had now completely given in to the reality that Sherlock wasn't just a client and that she wanted to say anything she could to make things better. But it wouldn't help. Still, she couldn't stand to see him like this. "You have to go," Irene said instead.

Looking up at her blearily, he asked, "Do you have another client?"

Irene's chest constricted at the way he said that. 'Another client', as if he were just a block of time on her agenda, in the same category as dozens of others. As if this had anything to do with her work. "Yes," she lied, her voice tight. She couldn't tell whether he believed her. Coughing, she said more insistently, "Now get up. Get your things."

Irene turned and walked out of the room without another word, unable to stay a second longer. She just sat in a living room chair and bit her manicured nails sharply. She suddenly needed Sherlock out of the flat as soon as possible. She felt absolutely horrible about tossing him out like this, and knew it would only reinforce the awful things she'd said the night before. But it was most likely a better option than breaking down in front of him.

After what seemed like ages, Sherlock emerged, looking like hell. Irene had already packed his things up in his bag, which he noticed. Silently, slowly, he grabbed the duffle bag and headed for the door, glancing only briefly at Irene. He didn't look angry at all. Instead he seemed drained and defeated, which was infinitely worse. He'd just about reached the door when Irene suddenly gave into her urge to get up and go to him. "Wait," she said, putting a hand on his arm just as he reached the door. Sherlock gave her a resigned look. "I just want you to know, you're welcome to come here any time. That hasn't changed."

Sherlock gave her a look that seemed passive, but was tinged with a brief flash of misery. Then it was gone, and he gave a tired, non-committal nod before walking out the door. Irene had barely closed it before she started sobbing.


End file.
